


I always will

by katethereader



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, all things rhys, antsy rhys, concerned rhys, feat. a freaking out rhys, my tiny bat boy, nervous rhys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7373974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katethereader/pseuds/katethereader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys' POV of the end of Chapter 12/beginning of Chapter 13 of acomaf (aka the scene where tamlin locks feyre up and rhys and mor go to rescue her)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I always will

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post on tumblr asking for Rhys's POV of theis scene and it took me a little while but I delivered! Hope you like it :)

“I have to—I have to get to her,” I said. Mor looked up from her armchair and smoothed out her legs from where they'd been tucked beneath her. 

I stood abruptly, clutching at my heart, looking for any kind of reprieve from the pulsing of pure terror, pure panic, that was coursing inside me. It was devastating.

And then darkness began to fill the room. Crushing, black darkness. “Rhys,” Mor began, “Rhys, what's going on? Get to who? You're freaking me out.”

I couldn't move, couldn't speak, as the darkness spread. It was magic based darkness. One of the signature powers of the Night Court High Lords. I thought I was the only one alive who could produce this, thought this power was mine alone. But the darkness wasn't mine—at least not really. It had the same ancient footprint as mine, but the feel, the weight, the _taste_ of it, was all a little different.

It was unmistakeable who it belonged to. And it—combined with that bone crushing terror and hopeless panic—meant she was in danger.

I had to get to her.

“Feyre,” I breathed. Mor’s breath hitched.

“What has he done?” she asked, fists clenching. “What has that beast done to her?”

“I don't know, I can't see. I can't see what's going on in there.” The darkness had filled the floor of the large room at the House of Wind. It curled up, licking at our thighs.

“Well of course you can't see, dumbass. It's all dark,” Mor huffed. “You have to _listen._ What is she _saying?”_ So I focused my energy on the bond between us. Not the bargain from Under the Mountain, but the _other one,_ the one she didn't—couldn't—know about yet. I threw all my energy into it and I _listened._ And there, softly, tortured, it was. The same repeated sentence with the same repeated tone of terror and disbelief. She sounded so small.

 Beautiful, powerful, genius, awe-inspiring, odds-defying Feyre, sounded so small.

 “He locked her up,” I said, the same disbelief coloring my voice as hers. Surely Tamlin couldn't be that stupid, that out-of-touch. Surely he hadn't done this. After she'd spent three months in a dungeon, thinking all the while only death awaited her; after enduring all the horrors she’d endured, seeing the things she'd seen locked up Under the Mountain; _surely_ Tamlin wouldn't do this to her.

But he had.

And now she was suffering, completely alone. I should never have let her return after that stunt he pulled in the study. That blinding terror before should have been my last straw. I should never have let her return. Damn the consequences—I wouldn't care if she’d never spoken to me again after that, because at least she'd be safe. Now—now…

My wings appeared of their own accord. “I have to get to her,” I repeated.

“Woah, woah, Rhys,” Mor said, “you can't honestly be serious.” I looked at her, shocked. She huffed again. “So your mate is locked in the Spring Court manor. The fact remains that she is the fiancée of the High Lord of the Spring Court, and therefore is technically just in her house. What are you—High Lord of the Night Court, may I remind you—going to do about it? You can't do anything Rhys, not unless we want a massive internal war on our hands.” I growled at her. She had a point.

“I—I can't do anything,” I said, my wings shuddering. The hopelessness of the situation destroyed me. She _needed_ me. But I couldn't get to her, not without jeopardizing the one thing I swore to protect when I became High Lord. Before then, even. Velaris.

What I realized next frightened me to the core. I would do it, for her. I would risk it all, throw it all away, to protect her.

But Mor saved me from having to. “But,” she said, “just because you can't go in there doesn't mean I can't.”

 

* * *

 

We winnowed to the Summer Court, to the point on its border closest to the Spring Court manor. I peered into the mind—the memories—of one of the manor’s housekeepers.

Tamlin had done this to her all so he could go _hunting_ on the borders. Looking right through the housekeeper’s eyes I saw Feyre on the floor of the great room, her body curled in on itself surrounded by a cloud of magic. All around her swirled darkness, ice, fire and wind. She was screaming—oh, what a terrible, terrible scream.

The anger it sent coursing through me was enough to wipe out everyone in that estate for letting this happen to her. But I couldn't do that. So, clenching my fists, I had to rein in my power enough to shatter the shield Tamlin had caged Feyre with and leave the rest for Mor.

"Go, Mor,” I instructed her, “quickly.  She must be carried from the property, with permission from a caretaker. Anyone in the manor should do. You can't winnow, you'll have to walk with her all the way here. Take the tunnel, it's fastest.”

“I know, Rhys. I’ve got it. I'll be back in no time.”

It wasn't no time. In fact, it took several minutes and each second that passed felt longer than the last. I was left alone in the stagnant summer court, left to imagine a thousand scenarios in which it could have gone wrong—scenarios in which I lost not just my cousin but my—my… Feyre.

I was going insane from the worry. Until I heard a heartbeat—no, two. Then Mor emerged from the tunnel onto the strawberry-scented grass with a cocoon of darkness in her arms.

The darkness shifted and there she was, golden hair limp, skin so pale, her body so thin and shaking and trembling. And she was still screaming that awful, awful scream.

I growled, low, vicious, unable to prevent it. My poor, poor Feyre.

The screaming quieted, her voice already sounding hoarse. I imagined she hadn't stopped screaming since that shield went up. One look at Mor’s tired, haunted eyes confirmed my suspicions. I doubted Feyre even knew she was doing it.

“I did everything by the book,” Mor said, a relief of an answer to a question I hadn't yet asked. I looked at Mor with a silent thank you and a silent plea. Mor, understanding, immediately placed Feyre’s trembling body into my arms. Her darkness didn't falter as I secured her in my grasp.

“Then we’re done here,” I growled. And with Mor by my side and a dark Feyre cocoon in my arms, we winnowed.

 

I wanted more than anything to lay her down in the soft bedding of my room at the House of Wind, above Velaris, the City of Starlight, the Court of Dreams, my home.

But it was too dangerous. She could awaken and still hate me, still want nothing but to return to Tamlin and the Spring Court. And then the lives of everyone in my city would be at risk. So instead I took her to the moonstone palace atop the Court of Nightmares. Mor took one look at me when we arrived and, with a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder, once again winnowed away.

Feyre was still in that limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness, still drowning in the darkness and terror. So I sat on the large plush couch, the nearest piece of furniture that would accommodate us both, and held her tightly to my chest. The fire and ice and wind had long since subsided. All that was left was her burning darkness, enveloping her, suffocating her.

It was a perfect exterior demonstration for how she must have felt on the inside all these months. I knew I once felt this way, I felt this way for 49 years. And the glimpses I saw into her mind when she sent things coursing down the bond rang too familiar for comfort. Feyre was in a dark place, literally and figuratively. And if she'd let me, I wanted her to know that I would stick by her through it all. I would help her find herself again, make herself again, give her the chance she deserved—if she'd let me.

So I helped her out of her toxic darkness—out of the cloying, inky mess she was drowning in—the only way I could think to. By sharing with her my own darkness. By reminding her that not all that is darkness is dangerous, not all that is dark is never-ending.

My own darkness, a soft shade of it, a whisper of companionship carried on dark cloud, infiltrated hers. It slunk through hers, like coffee through milk, changing its color, its tone, its texture, its taste. What was once harsh and hurting, raw and exposed, became velvety, cushioning.

And as my darkness soothed hers away, her face once again came into focus. I watched her take a heaving breath, saw her tear-stained cheeks begin to dry as the sobs that once racked her body began subsiding. Slowly the rest of her body came into view. Her palms bled from where her fingernails had pierced them, fists clenched. I took each of her palms in turn and smoothed them out. They were so, so cold.  

I wiped the blood away with my fingertips. The cuts were shallow, and with Feyre's advanced healing would likely heal over before she woke. But I still hated the sight of her blood. It invoked such strong feelings in my gut, in the very essence of who I was. The sight of her blood was so _wrong_. And as much as I hated the sight of her blood, I hated Tamlin more.

I hated Tamlin with such a fiery burning rage that I wasn't sure I'd be able to look him in the eye again without slaughtering him. I hated him for what he'd done to my mother and my sister. I always had and I always would. But more than that, I hated him for all he'd done to Feyre—and all he'd not done. She was near starving, deathly thin. Her skin was sallow and pale, her eyes and hair leeched of color. She was half dead under his care and he didn't even notice.

I hated that he could torture her this way without retribution. I hated that he could do all this to her and she would still go back to him. I hated that he thought he loved her. And I hated most of all that she loved him.

In dreams beyond dreams I promised myself that given the chance, if she ever let me, I would show Feyre what it means to be really and truly loved. I would show her that she is so, so strong; that she needs no one else to survive. But that, if she'd let me, I would stand by her side so the two of us could _live._

Her breathing was regular, her eyes calmly shut _._ She was asleep. All that I had left now was to wait. Watch and wait, until she woke. I thought for a brief moment that I would wait forever for her, if that's what it took. I always would.

And in a moment of desperation, a moment of pure thoughtless exhaustion, I took one of her hands in my own. I raised the hand to my lips and placed a soft whisper of a kiss right on the eye of her tattoo. “I love you, Feyre,” I breathed against her skin. “I always will.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work posted on ao3 and my first work in the acotar/maf fandom, but with all the ideas i have and the shortage of writing in the fandom, it shouldn't be my last!! Let me know what you think by leaving a kudos or a comment.


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